Local control improves heating system

Somewhat late in the day we decided to have thermostats fitted to the central heating radiators. As thermally inefficient pensioners we’ve had the heating on all day this winter for the first time and solar gain in the living room had indicated the need for local control.

Once the system was drained the ‘stats were quickly fitted. We were not only quoted a very competitive price but on a tour of the house the plumber recommended we only needed to control nine of the twelve radiators. Avoid adding thermostats in places where the temperature varies widely (the bathroom, the kitchen) to prevent excessive valve action.

But my concern was the usage stratagem. Received wisdom says bedrooms could be cooler but the hell with that. One pleasure here has been to wake up into a warm room and walk, stripped to the waist, fitted carpets all the way, into the en suite bathroom, there to remove unneeded facial hair. Shaving benefits from amelioration. In any case it turns out thermostat practice is based on “suck it and see”.

Given a captive plumber I was able to ask the $64,000-dollar question: why are his peers so addicted to Stilson wrenches, those clumsy self-tightening adjustables that risk graunching the corners off nuts? Of course nuts concentric with piping deny them ring spanners but the main reason, reluctantly admitted, is tradition. I would welcome comment on this from Works Well’s US commentators.

EBOOK FREEBIES. All Mark Twain’s letters in six volumes. The University of Pennsylvania's Online Books Page (30,000 titles).

Biting the hand that fed them - grits

When senior executives from Detroit’s Big Three recently took their begging bowls to Washington they were vilified for using company planes. Once, much humbler individuals used this form of transport.

The short-haul airliner (Alas, Relucent Reader, I’ve forgotten the type) was emblazoned with North American Rockwell’s logo and colours. Half the seats had been removed to increase leg room for the press party. In the aisle a polished wood box, somewhat larger than a Hammond organ, proved to be a well stocked bar opened while we were still climbing quite steeply. We were bound for Statesboro, Georgia, where I ate grits with red-eye gravy for the first time.

Ostensibly we were visiting a factory manufacturing control valves. In reality we were observing the latest skirmishes in the American Civil War. The factory managers all appeared to be New Yorkers who bitterly resented Statesboro. On the bus from the airport one of them commented: “You’ll see the town has a railway running through it. This is so lots of people can live on the wrong side of the tracks.”

Later were were told how to obtain a driving licence – necessary if you move to another state. “You pull up at a drive-in window in the town hall. You hand over your application form and five dollars. You’re told to drive round the town hall and pull up again to pick up your licence. Which would have been just fine except that my neighbour was driving the car.” Lots of sipping whisky that evening brought more of these stories which – inevitably – I have forgotten. Together with anything I learned about control valves.

Ebook reader: progress report

It’s beginning to look more like a book. The MS of Gypsy Scholar, which Jinks and I have sweated over for two years, now resides on my swanky new Sony Portable Reader System alongside War and Peace, The Heart of Darkness and 98 other titles which came as freebies.

As explained, the aim is to read the MS as if I were a reader instead of an editor. I did the transfer yesterday and was ready to go but swimming pool water got into my goggles and left my eyes streaming. Some time this weekend, then.

How good is the machine? For me, optically as good as paper but it supplements rather than replaces books. Electronic things break and if you were in Timbuktu (excellent BBC4 programme last night about the ancient documents found there) you’d need print back-up. But ponder this. Suppose you were going foreign and needed your big 2½ kg dictionary. If it came as an ebook you could load it into the 255 gm Sony and still have room for Hamlet, The Rights of Man, Middlemarch, On the Origin of Species, Jungle Book, the complete Jane Austen, most of Dickens and le tout Ruth Rendell. In all 160 titles.

At the moment I’m spouting the press release; I need to use the thing. I checked title availability by Googling “ebooks” and turned up half a dozen, mainly university, sources. Project Gutenberg offers 27,000 free out-of-copyright titles. Copyrighted titles you pay for. If you want French books try Athena. On verra.

Latest: Just copied and transferred Rousseau's La nouvelle Héloise (via the Athena site) with no problems. Wonder what it's about.

A reward in this life and thereafter

It’s been done before but what the heck. What have these in common: Grazia Deledda, Werner von Heidenstam, Jacinto Benavente? Let’s make it easier. How about: Elfriede Jelinek, Wole Soyinka, Winston Churchill? That’s right. All six won the Nobel Prize for literature and the latter trio won it post-war.

I used to take flak from a physicist who cited the Nob/lits when jeering at the evanescence of literary taste. Whereas, he said, the Nob/physics not only include the names that should be there but also the deserving lesser lights. I sympathise with hard science practitioners who look on bemused as yet another fictional “genius” is popularly lauded then forgotten in months. Where are you now Wislawa Symborska, who took the cheque in 1996?

But let’s not cry too hard for the unsung quantum mechanics. Their tight world hands out prizes which come close to conferring immortality. Do these words mean anything: henry, becquerel, pascal? They are the internationally approved units for measuring inductance, the activity of a radionuclide and pressure/stress. They are also the surnames of three scientific giants.

Oh, it would be nice to get the cheque but just imagine if the scientific community decided that the quality (Chutzpah? Mendacity? Subversiveness?) of blogs would, from now on, be measured in bondens. Ahhh.

PERFECT NAME FOR A TWO-WHEELER (See below). It isn't a bike and it's not British. But nobody has bettered Vespa (means wasp in Italian).

Names that bypassed the experience

Only Avus and, perhaps, Plutarch will find any pork scratchings here. Everyone else can take the afternoon off.

The bike is a Matchless twin, circ. 1960. By then Matchless and AJS bikes were “badge engineered” (ie, identical hardware, different labels, the aim being to preserve two marques dating back several decades). It’s shown here because, to my surprise, a Matchless appears on the cover of the current Radio Times.

I had intended to expatiate on the quaint optimism embodied in this and other bike names of the period. After only a brief reflection I realised that even quaint optimism was a marketing rarity: Velocette, Triumph and possibly Ariel had the right idea but Sunbeam, Royal Enfield and BSA (standing for Birmingham Small Arms!) completely missed the point. Even worse were the excruciatingly dull names relating to human progenitors: Francis Barnett, James and (unforgivable, given its hairy-chested prowess) Vincent-HRD.

Virtually all British bike names, with the exception of Triumph and Norton (both small operations now), have disappeared and choice is limited predominantly to Japanese companies. Ironically the big four (Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki) all bear the names of their founders yet, because of their foreign-ness, don’t sound quite so tedious. In fact Yamaha, a company that started out making reed organs, and Kawasaki have almost onomatopeiac links with their bike products.

Ducati – the successful Italian manufacturer? Founded by the Ducati brothers.

Time to stop being sentimental?

Here’s an odd literary problem.

For two years I’ve edited a biography. The author and I are now satisfied the manuscript is factually and stylistically acceptable. There remains one final task: to read the MS as if for the first time. To assess it as a reader would.

The author has done this but I’ve held back, doubting my objectivity. Every sentence is so damn familiar. I decided I needed to avoid the computer screen. I could print the MS and read the paper - a horrible waste of consumables. Or I could download to an ebook reader. This technology has greatly improved: the text looks like print on paper not dancing electric dots, you “turn” the pages, a battery charge provides 7000 page turns and the system operates in strong sunlight. A Sony reader costs £220 but I can see subsequent uses.

I asked a super-techno friend who said: “Personally I wouldn't touch a dedicated ebook reader, though it's a case of I haven't tried it because I don't like it. If you want to read (the MS) afresh, print it out, preferably double-sided, cut it to book size and put it in an A5 size folder.” A quick trawl of my PC doesn’t immediately reveal how you print double-sided. A manual solution would be extremely tedious.

I’m on shaky ground. Most, if not all, of this blog’s respondents are passionately and emotionally attached to books. As I am. But once I was attached to my typewriter and here I am initiating streams of electrons. The last holiday on facility-less Karpathos meant that the weightiest part of our luggage consisted of books. An ebook reader can contain 160. Hmmm.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

Paying autoroute tolls in France is a pain. Not because of the amounts, for these roads deliver good value; rather the interface ergonomics. The guichet is on the wrong side of the car (Hey, I know I’m foreign but I’m keeping France’s economy afloat), the ticket carries no way of predicting what’s to be paid, and I’m always a’feared younger daughter will drop the change.

There’s a much better system for the Severn Bridge and no doubt elsewhere in Britain. You’re told well in advance what you have to pay and when you arrive you toss the sum into a plastic hopper. It works well! And there’s this extra anthropomorphic pleasure, imagining this huge conceptual (Can’t stop using that adjective.) mouth swallowing and then digesting the coins.

An enlightened Highways Agency should decorate the hopper with painted teeth and a moustache

THE CURSE STRIKES 09.20 today. Sorting through the contents of the underpants drawer I pull out a white pair carrying a scene from a Loony Tunes cartoon, a joky Christmas table present more than a decade ago. Mrs Bonden: “It’s time those were thrown away.” BB: the usual rejoinder; why discard anything that’s still doing a job?

09. 45, on the way to Tesco for The Observer. That horrible feeling of insecurity as the elastic goes and the pants slide uselessly down my thighs. Underneath my trousers I hasten to add.

Question Can underpants be inveigled into failure?

Til a' the seas gang dry, my love

When L.P. Hartley wrote, “The past is another country. They do things differently there.” he cleverly avoided suggesting whether the things done were better or worse. An admirable aide mémoire for those of us well stricken in years since it hints we should be careful about recalling Golden Eras. Often, the Golden Era is now.

This jazzy device is our kitchen scale and I had intended it to be the basis for a quite different post. But the word scale took me back in time, reminding me of earlier versions of such weighing systems and the effect they had on the general populace.

No one under the age of fifty can possibly imagine how long it took to buy necessities in, say, 1951 . You didn’t serve yourself, you stood in a queue and listened to inordinate chat as white-aproned men behind the counter cut lumps of cheese, poured out bags of sugar and dug into barrels of dried peas then carefully weighed out the amounts. Weighed – that is – by putting the produce in one pan and weights in the other.

Groceries were beautifully tricked out with wooden drawers, hanging reels of string and a beguiling combination of smells. An environment destined straight for the heritage museum. And thank goodness. Using a grocery gave me plenty of time to reflect that the adult capacity for conversation was infinite. Those scales which helped drag out the process now grace the window-bottoms (West Riding phrase) of houses in south-east England. The Golden Age of Weighing? Yes, if you like weighing. Otherwise there’s always our streamlined little number.